


Uncertainty of the Cleome

by MysShadowDragon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: I know that far from home kind of messes with this whole thing but uhhhh, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Peter really would be screwed up after a loss like he had, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Doubt, cleome is a spider flower btw, i wrote this right after endgame and then dropped it, it was supposed to be longer until i recently reread it and went damn, lets just fucking leave it lol, that be sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 23:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21144893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysShadowDragon/pseuds/MysShadowDragon
Summary: Peter considers the aftermath of the snap. The damage done to the universe, to the earth, and to himself.





	Uncertainty of the Cleome

  
Cap had said it a million times. Every time the question was inevitably brought up in interviews, talk shows, buzzfeed questionnaire. What was it like to be in this time?

“When I went under, the world was at war. I wake up, they say we won.”

Peter could feel those thoughts scratching at his skull as he looked across the field of towering stones. A memorial to the vanished. To those that lost five years in the blink of an eye. 

To those traumatized by the sensation of dying. Of losing the light inside them and having their wills trickle out of their disappearing bodies. A monument to the suffering of billions across the planet and it was four blocks from his house. 

He had to look away, keep walking the straight path to the subway. It hadn’t even been a full week since he’d crawled through hell. A madness left deep in his bones. Tony’s—Mister Starks funeral - passed only two days ago. It had been private considering the life the man had lived. He’d found out that Mister Stark had a kid. She was cute. If that was even something you could say when you meet her for the first time at her father's funeral.

Peter scrubbed at his eyes as he walked through the trashed streets. Overgrown and abandoned. Everything was different, and it’d only been four days for him. Four. Days.

He’d left the school bus to fight the spaceship. Was a space stowaway. Made an Avenger. Died an Avenger. Got dragged back into the fight breathless and disorientated, still sore from wounds that shouldn’t exist anymore. Mister Strange had wheeled around the second he stood up and told them it was five years in the future and that they needed him. Who ‘they’ was was the last thing on his mind as he charged through a portal.

The others and himself left lost on Thanos’ planet stepped out into Captain America staring down Thanos. The Chitauri spanning the horizon and the dust from the surrounding wasteland blotting out the sun or maybe it was the warship that did. Peter couldn't remember.

The sight had made him woozy. The memory nearly sent him sprawling across the sidewalk in a heap of miserable trash. 

He’d killed so many things just to keep them from ripping his arms off. He’d slaughtered droves of those aliens without even a second thought…

That wasn’t right though. Thinking about how easily he’d killed the aliens didn’t sicken him it was the furious glee that came with comeuppance that did. He remembered dying clearer than any battle. Any happy memory. Any fearful nightmare. It was like the Olympic flame in a dark room.

The glove was his main goal to protect, but when he reflected he questioned if he protected it for the Avengers, for the trillions it killed, or if he played the worlds most extreme hot potato to protect himself?

When he was shoved through the devils gate, did he stand up against Thanos like Captain America or did he scuttle away like the bug he was? Was he even made for this?

Somebody shoved into his shoulder, and Peter snapped his head up to glare at this kid who glared right back.

In the foyer of Midtown tech, his feet leading him through a familiar path straight into a school that felt the same at first glance. 

He was not the only hopeless soul. Not the only living dead who walked through the gates of a once safe, familiar home to find a shell containing nothing of the previous comforts. 

Dirty, smaller, and with no familiar faces except within the lost souls around him. Peter wanted to scream. Was this his fault for not getting the glove off fast enough the first time or was his keep away game enough to absolve him? Is it wrong to blame Thanos for everything or should it be on him on trial?

Should he be angry at Mister Stark or was he just scared? 

“Parker, Peter!” His name was shouted above the din. He scrambled to the front of the crowd to a stranger. “Glad to have you back, your classes have unfortunately changed because of faculty issues. We have arranged a new timetable for you!” They slid a paper over the table to him that Peter grabbed with shaky fingers. As he turned to melt back into the crowd someone shouted a new name, Peter wincing at the volume, only for the same spiel to dribble from a teacher's mouth. 

Looking down at the timetable, Peter felt his mouth go dry. Not a single teacher he knew. His classes all different. The last bell had even changed. Shorter to accommodate the loss in attendees and staff. 

It hasn’t been longer than a week since he last went to school. He’d been sick for longer than this. It’s all changed. 

Slumping down onto a locker in an unlit hallway Peter starred at his sheet. One week for him, five years everywhere else. His life gone. How much did they really bring back? 

How much did they save? Was it enough to keep doing this?


End file.
